Gotcha
by quotegilikay
Summary: When Sam was three, he used to hate being kissed. And so Dean, the proverbial annoying older brother, did it to him all the time. Brotherly one-shot/drabble thing. No slash. Warning: character death.


**A/N- **I don't own anything. I should think you would all know that by now.

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When Sam was three, he used to hate being kissed.

So of course Dean, nearly seven and the proverbial annoying big brother, did it to him all the time. He turned it into a game, something to fill the long hours while John was hunting and they would stay by themselves in yet another endlessly similar motel room. He used to chase Sam around, and Sam would run squealing with laughter on his chubby little legs, and then Dean would scoop him up. Sam would kick and struggle and try to push Dean away, which didn't tend to work because generally by this stage Sam would be giggling so much that he couldn't make his limbs work properly, and Dean would dodge Sam's little hands and press his lips to the skin of his brother's chubby little cheek.

'Gotcha.' He'd say, every time, grinning and scrabbling at Sam's stomach with his fingers.

'No!' Sam would squeal, his hands over his face, laughing. 'You meeshda! You meeshda'd me!'

It was bittersweet, these images in Dean's head of Sam as _innocent_, before he'd known about the world he was living in or the man he would grow up to become. Of Sam tiny and chubby, all wispy brown hair and wide toothy smiles and brown eyes with nothing in them but laughter.

Bittersweet because of all the crap that little boy had to go through. Because of the growing up never staying in one place for more than a month, and because of not being able to be just a normal kid no matter how much he might want it. Because of Jess and Dad and Bobby, and Hell and the apocalypse and _everything_.

Bittersweet because as he'd grown up he'd lost almost everything that child was. All the innocence and the carefree laughter and the unreserved trust he had in the world and the people he loved and how he used to think everyone and everything was transparent and exactly as they seemed. Dean had tried to protect him, shielded him as much as he could, but eventually the world had won over, and Sam had laughed less as the chubbiness of toddlerhood moulded itself into the awkward, gangly lines of Sam as a child.

And bittersweet because Dean was about to lose him.

Sam was sprawled awkwardly across Dean's legs, his head against Dean's stomach. Dean was cradling his brother's head in his arms. Wiping away the trickle of blood that ran from his mouth.

Brown eyes searched desperately for green, and Sam shifted, moaned, lost somewhere far away where Dean couldn't follow.

Dean tried to pull him back, his hands finding their way to the sides of his brother's face. 'Shh, sh. It's OK, Sammy.' He whispered, tears threatening the back of his eyes, but he was trying to hold it together for his little brother because he knew he had to be strong for him. 'It's OK. I've got you. It'll be over soon.' It was just nonsense, soothing words to calm Sam down, just as he'd done so many times throughout his life, but his voice still broke on that last word.

Sam's eyes were wide and pleading, begging Dean to do something, _anything_, to help him, to take the pain away, to fix him.

'Sammy.' Dean murmured. 'I know, I know. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for everything.'

'Dean.' Sam slurred, and the sound made Dean break. The tears fell, and he didn't even try to stop them this time. 'It- it's OK.'

He shifted uncomfortably, the fear in his eyes evident no matter how much he tried to hide it, and Dean sang softly to him, just like he used to when Sam was a kid. His voice cracked and broke through his tears and it was as much to calm Dean down as it was for Sam, because that was so typical of Sam, to use his last breaths to try and make Dean feel better when it was supposed to be Dean making this easier for Sam, and it made Dean realise exactly how much he was about to lose.

Sam's eyes were a little calmer now, a little less glazed and still wide and pained but more grounded, focused on Dean and his eyes and his voice, but then suddenly the arm clutching desperately at Dean's jacket slacked and Sam was gone and there was nothing Dean could do anymore.

Dean clasped Sam even closer to his chest, tears flowing with renewed force from under his closed eyelids, pretending for just another moment that this wasn't happening, that this was all a dream, that there was something he could do. His world was falling apart and there was nothing anyone could do about it, except the one man who couldn't. So he clung to his brother like he was a life raft in a storm.

He pressed a kiss to Sam's forehead, put his lips close to his ear, and whispered.

'Gotcha, Sammy.'

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**A/N2- **I made myself sad.


End file.
